I interviewed him a few weeks ago with his attorney. He was in orange. You could've colored me skeptical — initially.

Usually, removals occur, no muss, no fuss. The American Immigration Lawyers Association tells me that many “removals” occur without a hearing in immigration court, without any counsel representing the person, often without those removed apprised of what rights can be tapped — not much of anything except a “don't let the door hit you on the way out, amigo.”

Max and his attorney have been mussing and fussing. The attorney is the indomitable Linda Brandmiller, formerly doing immigration work for Catholic Charities here but now in private practice. She is representing Max knowing fully well that if she ever sees a dime, it will be a minor miracle on the order of hearts at ICE melting over cases such as Max's.

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If she believes Max is a trafficking victim and argues it, that tells me something.

When removals are contested, as in this case, it can be a process of mind-numbing bureaucracy, during which the “detainee” — another polite term that means prisoner — is locked up, often without meaningful access to bond or release on his own recognizance.

Max really doesn't dispute that he entered without inspection or parole. But he was 6 or 7 years old, he says.

He and his parents were crossing the river with a group of other migrants and someone shouted “Migra!” There was great confusion, during which he and his parents were separated. He ran with others.

Among those who weren't caught were some young men who took charge of him and took him to a nearby “rancho,” where he stayed for the next six or seven years. How he came to remain there is why his attorney, Brandmiller, is seeking a “T” visa.

The “T” is for victims of human trafficking or to those who can help in the investigation of that crime. She is also seeking a “U” visa, for victims of crime, in this case a beating Max sustained by his girlfriend's ex.

Max says he was put to work at this rancho, kept out of school, fed haphazardly and not paid. He says also that this “rancho” had all the earmarks of a trafficking depot. Young women also came through.

“They were afraid. They came for progress, to get educated. This wasn't the truth.” He said they were there to be trafficked.

Max cared for the rancho animals — chickens, cows and horses. He slept on a couch. He wasn't treated as family. He was a slave, really, from his description. He was given nothing unless he worked for it.

“They always told me my parents were going to come,” he said. He never saw them again. “I didn't have love. I wanted a normal life. I cried, 'When are my parents coming?'”

Around age 14, he was going to be given new work.

“They were going to make me work at the border — crossing others,” he said.

He tried to escape, and was caught and severely beaten, he said. His next escape was successful.

A kindly woman put him up for a while and connected him with a man who gave him paid work helping on carpentry jobs. The man left, but Max kept on working, eventually getting a girlfriend, older with kids, for whom, he says, he became a surrogate father.

Here's what else you need to know about Max. He was arrested for “aggravated assault with a deadly weapon” and later for “interference with the duties of a public servant.”

These charges were dropped or dismissed, even according to the government's own filings.

In the real world, this would mean they didn't happen. But they are directly responsible for his current plight.

The first charge was over barbecued meat he didn't want to share with his girlfriends' relatives, whom he thought were freeloading. Knowing he was undocumented, they called the cops, claiming he brandished a knife.

There was no fighting, threats or assault, aggravated or otherwise. Max disputed officers' ability to come on to the property. And then there was a three-month stay in jail on charges that were dropped or dismissed.

After this arrest, local authorities called him to the attention of immigration authorities. He was released, with a notice to appear. His version: He signed a paper, told he would stay in jail unless he did.

The second arrest followed an incident in which his dog bit a man, who, Max said, was baiting the dog. The man offered to forget the whole thing for $20. Max paid. The cops got called anyway.

This ultimately triggered a return to immigration authorities because it violated the terms of his release.

This “interference” charge was dropped or dismissed, too, though that didn't matter for immigration purposes. In other words, for a minor dog bite and interference with a police officer that, according to Max, didn't occur, Max is locked up. Again, the charge was dropped or dismissed.

In a filing, the Department of Homeland Security says Max has failed to provide “prima facie” evidence that anything he says about being trafficked is true, that he has not provided proof he is assisting law enforcement on this matter, and that he is “time-barred” from applying for the visas. Also, DHS notes that he allegedly escaped traffickers but stayed without pressing the trafficking claim.

Imagine: An undocumented immigrant didn't report a crime and then stayed. Some lessons:

Claim you're a trafficking victim, the burden of proof is on you — a penniless immigrant.

Not a lot of incentive to step forward. So, instead of one part of the same organization simply saying, “Hey, judge, we're investigating” or “we're not,” the immigrant essentially has to prove this investigation is occurring. Brandmiller is trying to do that.

We've created a visa for trafficking victims, though getting one is difficult. Yet, if Max's claims have launched any investigation, it's lost on both him and Brandmiller.

A judge set a $1,500 bond, which might as well be $1.5 million to Max. Brandmiller offered that he would be put up at a Catholic shelter. No dice.

Again, the American Immigration Lawyers Association tells me this effective lack of bond or, when they can't afford it, release on own recognizance, is a standard feature of our immigration system.

A friend of Brandmiller's offered to post the $1,500 bond. But that couldn't happen because Max didn't have access to his birth certificate.

Go figure: A person trafficked at 6 or 7 didn't have ready access to a birth certificate. A solution might be on its way — a document from the Mexican Consulate, though Brandmiller also suggested this earlier.

After interviewing Max, I'd say his story is worth checking out or he's a mighty accomplished liar.

He has a tattoo on his arm that looks like his traffickers branded him as property.

Talk to folks who do this for a living and they will tell you that trafficking claims are not made lightly. Lawyers' reputations are at stake, and there are easier ways to fight removal.

Max asked that his name not be used for fear of retribution.

This is not my first encounter with people in “detention.” There are people who belong there and those who don't. Max arguably doesn't.

This is what Max says he has learned. Be afraid.

“We have fear. What is it we're going to do that will get us in trouble,” he said. “We have fear of the police.”

Even on charges ultimately dropped, you can find yourself in “detention.” Imagine: There are immigrants reluctant to step forward to report crimes.

It's Max's story but it's our immigration system. It chews up people. Sometimes on purpose, sometimes because, you know, that's just how we do things.